Guantanamo Boy (32 page)

Khalid manages to nod goodbye to each man as he goes past with his small steps, walking weirdly like an old man. They greet him with affectionate
salaams
and questions in various languages, wondering where he’s going without his chains. The same thought occurs to Khalid, but all he can do is wave and try to concentrate on not tripping over as he’s led to a nearby block, put in a small room and left there.

“Hey, there’s no water in here!” Khalid yells as the guard clicks the lock shut. The sound of heavy boots fades away, leaving him with nothing to do but sit on the blue chair, his stuff in his lap, and wait for someone to come.

With no air conditioning, the room is hot and sticky. Khalid stares at the desk and chair opposite him and listens to the sound of a door opening and closing. More footsteps. Trucks starting up outside. Dogs barking. The call to prayer begins. Surely they’re not going to leave him here for much longer without water? The more he thinks about it, the more convinced he becomes that he’s been brought here because Harry has demanded to see him. And if he has been told to bring his stuff, they must be taking him to another block afterwards. Maybe they’re playing another psychological game with him. All Khalid knows is he’s thirsty. There’s been no breakfast or lunch and the chair he’s sitting on is made of rough, itchy material that feels like carpet. The next time he hears footsteps, Khalid jumps up to bang on the door.

“Hey, where’s my water? Where’s my water?”

The door opens at last. A female soldier with deep-set dark eyes passes him a warm plastic bottle and then an amazing thing happens. She nods, saying, “Sorry, you should have been given this earlier this morning!”

Unbelievable.

Khalid is so flabbergasted, he takes the bottle and just stands there staring at her. No one has ever, ever, ever said sorry to him since he was kidnapped. Except for Lee-Andy, of course. That one time, yeah.

When the door closes and he sits down to drink, Khalid also realizes, for the first time, that he might, just might be getting this special treatment because he’s got a lawyer to hear his complaints.

It’s past midnight when two guards come to take him away. One scoops up his Qur’an, papers and pen, the other clicks the shackles into place with unnecessary force. Khalid’s eaten nothing since yesterday and he’s feeling dizzy from the heat, so he doesn’t care where he’s going, but he’s shocked they’ve taken all this trouble merely to walk him ten paces down the corridor to a room similar to the one he’s just left.

Only this time two hot-shot American military men in smart uniform are waiting for him.

“I’m Major Donaldson. This is Major Leeth,” says the first man, holding out a palm to introduce the more important-looking man standing beside him. Both eye Khalid as if he’s another nuisance they can’t wait to get rid of, while the guard at the door watches his every move.

“We’re here to tell you, number 256 . . .” Major Donaldson pauses.

Khalid shivers.
What? What?

“You’re,” Major Leeth butts in, “yes, you’re going home!”

“What?” Khalid swoons, going hot and cold at the same time. Overwhelmed as the length and breadth of Rochdale flashes before his eyes. Is this for real?

“You’ll be given a bag for your things. Follow the guard.” Major Donaldson nods.

“That’s all you’ve got to say?” Khalid narrows his eyes. “That’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.” This idiot is clearly a robot. He’s no use as a major, that’s for sure. “How come you’re letting me go all of a sudden? Are they going to put me in prison in England? Go on, tell me!”

“Let’s just say you’re no longer considered a threat,” Major Donaldson replies.

“You’re the threat, mate, not me. I’m going to sue you for all of this. Just so you know,” Khalid says.

“I think you’ll find you were never arrested,” Major Leeth tells him, smirking.

“No, that’s right, I was kidnapped, wasn’t I? You suckers better apologize for torturing me.”

At this, the guard grabs his shoulder to push him outside.

“Wait. I need to say goodbye to someone first,” Khalid begs. “Please can I?”

“Take him directly to the exit gate.” Major Donaldson hands the guard a sealed brown envelope and closes the door.

“Thanks for nothing!” Khalid yells, elbowing the guard away. Two years’ worth of anger in his eyes.

“Hey, man,” the guard says, trying to calm him down, not quite understanding. He raises his eyebrows. “Be OK, you’ll see.”

“Yeah, if they’re telling the truth.” A number of conflicting emotions pass through Khalid as they walk out of the building. What are they up to now? Where’s he going? How’s he going to get home? Will anyone believe him? The idea of no longer being bound by shackles, barbed wire, soldiers, feels too frightening to imagine. Free? What does that mean?

Day after day he’d pictured being back in Rochdale—at home with his family and friends, at college, with Niamh even —but he’d never actually imagined walking out of here one day.

“I don’t know where to go. I haven’t got any money.” Khalid shudders.

“You’re not done yet.” The guard smiles. “Don’t worry.”

“Look, will you do me a favor?”

This time the guard eyes him suspiciously. “Depends what you want.”

“Find number 372. Tell him about me going. Say I won’t stop trying until he’s free too. Will you do that for me, man?” Khalid begs, desperate to let Tariq know what’s happening.

“Sure, no problem.” The guard eyes the dark clouds scudding across the black body of the night sky, anxious to avoid Khalid’s gaze. A wall of distrust divides them as they walk across the floodlit base, making dusty footprints on the path. Past concrete buildings and soldiers going about their business. Along a row of parked-up trucks and barking dogs, razor wire rattling in the breeze, then a sudden flap of wings from a bird overhead.

The smell of binned sausages outside the kitchen quarters as they pass by reminds Khalid of the kebab shop at home on Roland Road. He salivates suddenly at the thought of lamb doner being sliced from a vertical cone into pita bread with tomatoes, lettuce, onions and chilli sauce.

Sparking the memory of Mikael at the counter, shouting, “I love you. I love you,” to a fistful of oozing bread and Tony Banda with his hand out for his special vegetarian order of chips, tomatoes and Cheddar cheese in pita bread with chilli sauce
and
mayonnaise.

“Leave some of that mayo for me,” Nico warns.

Half crazy with nerves, a hungry hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, Khalid follows the soldier inside another building, where three men wait for him. And before anything happens the shackles are unclicked and dropped on the floor. One man fingerprints him, the other hands him a navy T-shirt, socks and jeans. The last guy points to four pairs of blue sneakers on the table.

Without a word, Khalid’s fitted with old-man, high-waisted jeans and a baggy T-shirt. Clothes more suited to a chunky American than a skinny kid. The sudden whiff of denim makes Khalid think of the pile of clean folded clothes Mum lays on his bed each week. Every time he used to pull a face at her for coming in without knocking. He’ll never do that again. He imagines being at home in the kitchen, being helpful, extra nice and respectful as he breathes in cinnamon and cloves from the apple tart she’s made before going off to work. When she pulls up the hood of her white rainproof jacket, he’s going to rush to find the umbrella for her and open the door to her smile.

He’s going to get up early to clean Dad’s shoes and surprise him by twisting the lid back evenly on the Kiwi polish. Tell him, “It’s OK, Dad, when I’m rich I’ll look after you. No worries.”

He’ll be grateful to walk his sisters to school instead of complaining it’ll make him late. And he’ll tell Holgy he’s the best footballer out of all of them, which he is.

But then Khalid’s worst fears are confirmed when another soldier turns up with new shackles hanging from his arms.

“What are these for?”

“Security,” the guard says. “Won’t be for long!”

A shattering feeling of relief builds up inside Khalid as they throw a hood on his head and usher him into a vehicle waiting outside. Finally, he’s leaving Guantanamo Bay after what feels like thirty years.

And Niamh, what can he do for her?

For a start he can tell her he loved her buttercup painting. That it was way better than anything else and when he stood in the library looking at it he lost all sense of time—he was right there in the long grass. A rush of pure, vibrating pleasure suddenly shoots from Khalid’s stomach to his throat. Yeah, there’re so many nice things he’s going to do. He can’t wait.

Khalid doesn’t know where they are taking him this time but he’s back in the vehicle and smelling the night air and the whiff of petrol as they drive for a while and then stop. He listens to the sound of soldiers opening metal gates and the vehicle driving off. When it stops next time, he’s moved to a boat. A large boat, Khalid thinks by the easy feeling he gets from speeding across the water. Before long they are back on land. Soon he’s shuffled out and the shackles are undone and the hood’s whipped off for the last time.

Staring at the military plane, Khalid says a quiet thank-you to the thousands of stars in the Cuban night sky and says a silent prayer for the men who are still there. For a moment he hears the patter of rain as he’s guided to the plane. A soldier hands him a white plastic bag with his Qur’an, letter, postcard, sheets of paper and pen. No goodbye. No good wishes. Nothing but a soldier directing him. Gun at the ready.

On board, Khalid’s surprised to see lots more people. A few police and men in plain suits. Then there’s the guy he saw in Karachi. That bloke with the posh voice. Other guys who nod and smile as he walks past. And what looks like another newly released detainee: T-shirt half off, he’s reading the
Daily Mirror
and quickly working his way through a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.

“Khalid . . . finally, at last.” Harry jumps out of his seat to greet him, grinning from ear to ear.

“Hiya.” A bit dazed from lack of sleep and starving hungry, Khalid sits next to him.

“Did you ever believe you’d be going home?”

“No way. Thanks for everything,” Khalid says, tears welling in his eyes again.

“No, no. Thank your family and friends when you get home. Rochdale is a good place, you know? That whole community has been fighting to get you back. Your dad got up a petition and thousands of people have signed. The
Rochdale Evening News
took up the case. You’re famous! Want these?” Harry hands Khalid a packet of cheese crackers and a bottle of water.

“Thanks.”

He hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday and taking his time to enjoy each mouthful, the extraordinary feeling he’s going home slowly flows through his body until the certainty can no longer be denied. But not only does Khalid find this Rochdale stuff hard to believe; it seems incredible that from now on people will think he’s special, though not for anything positive, just for spending time in that prison.

Roaring to the end of the runway, the plane finally takes off.

That’s it—the nightmare’s really over. But before Khalid gets the chance to absorb the fact of his freedom, Harry has another surprise.

“I almost forgot!” Bending down to riffle through the bulging black briefcase stowed carefully under the seat in front, he finds the package he’s looking for.

“Ah, yes, here they are.” He hands Khalid three bright envelopes held together by an elastic band. “From your family.”

The first one Khalid opens has a huge red number 17 on the front and the words “Happy Birthday.” The others are handmade cards of birds and flowers from Aadab and Gul.

“Happy birthday for three weeks ago,” Harry says.

“Yeah, March eleventh. Seems so long ago now. Thanks.”

“Hundreds of people have sent cards,” Harry says. “Your mum’s keeping them for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Harry laughs. “A belated happy birthday from me too. Why didn’t I get you a present? Wait a minute. Excuse me?” Harry calls to the soldier on duty. “Any chance of a couple of fresh orange juices?”

Clinking small plastic glasses to celebrate his seventeenth birthday, Khalid catches up on the family news he’s missed from the letter inside the huge blue football card from Mum and Dad. The news of his Uncle Amir’s death, plus details of the small flat the aunties have moved to in Karachi. How Aadab has started a gymnastics class at the sports club and Gul is enjoying swimming after refusing to go anywhere near the water. And how Mum’s the first person in the family to pass her driving test. Loads of things that make Khalid smile.

Harry then fills him in on the War on Terror, plus the Madrid train bombings three weeks ago and stories of the renditions, all the handing over of prisoners which Khalid has been part of.

In some ways Harry’s more excited than he is. But then Khalid guesses he’s had a good night’s sleep, unlike him.

“I made a few notes for you about what’s been happening with Guantanamo Bay. Here—take a look. It’s pretty shocking stuff.”

Khalid glances down the page, reading about the widespread criticism of the military tribunals called “kangaroo courts” by a British Lord Justice. Reading the section on juveniles with growing disgust.

In January 2004 a Pentagon spokesperson told a BBC journalist that after the release of three Afghans aged eleven to fifteen, no other juveniles remain in Guantanamo.

“Yeah, well, I was still there,” Khalid says, pointing this bit out to Harry.

He nods. “A report from the charity Reprieve says many more juveniles have been held at the base and none have been given a fair trial and found guilty.”

Khalid hands the whole thing back. “I can’t take any more in at the moment.”

“No, of course,” Harry says.

Then a policeman walks along the aisle and pauses for a moment to give Khalid a warm smile. Khalid shrinks back, half expecting him to shout. But the man does nothing more than hold out a small plastic bottle of water, saying, “Enjoy the journey. Want anything else?”

“Yeah, I mean no. No, thanks.” Khalid turns to Harry, eager to ask the long-awaited question that’s just popped into his mind. “My cousin Tariq Waji Hachem is still in Guantanamo. He’s only two years older than me. Can you help him?”